Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  In a few minutes there was a renewed and increased noise outside, and Mr. Jorrocks now recognised the bland voice of his friend the groom of the chamber.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said he softly through the door, “but would you allow me to speak to you for a moment?”

  “Certainly,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “talk through the door.”

  “Please, sir, would you ‘blige me with your name, sir?”

  “Certainly! Mr. Jorrocks, to be sure! The M.F.H.! Who else should it be?”

  “Oh, I fear, sir, there’s a mistake, sir. This room, sir, was meant for Captain Widowfield, sir. Those are his clothes, sir.”

  “The deuce!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, in disgust. “Didn’t Pigg tell you I was a comin’?”

  “It was the captain’s servant I took for yours, sir.”

  “Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, “that won’t do; at all ewents, I can’t part with the garments.”

  “I will thank you, sir, to let my servant remove my clothes from my room,” observed Captain Widowfield, in a slow, determined tone through the door.

  “My good frind,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, altering his accents, “’ow is it possible for me to part with the garments when I’ve nothin’ o’ my own but wot’s as drippin’ wet as though I’d been dragged through the basin of the Paddin’ton Canal? reg’larly salivated in fact!”

  “I have nothing to do with that, sir,” exclaimed the captain, indignantly; “I’m wet myself. Will you open the door, I say?”

  “No, I von’t,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “and that’s the plain English of it!” So saying, he swaggered back to the fire with the air of a man resisting an imposition. He then mixed himself a third tumbler of brandy and water.

  It may be well here to mention that the mansion in which Mr. Jorrocks so suddenly found himself was Onger Castle, where Michael Hardy, the founder of the hunt, found himself at the end of his long and successful run. The vicissitudes of many years had thrice changed the ownership of the castle since the day when the good earl greeted our primitive sportsman on killing his fox before the castle windows, and the present possessor was nephew to that nobleman, who having that day attained his majority, was about to celebrate the event among a party of friends and neighbours.

  Having waited until half-past six to welcome Captain Widowfield, before dressing, his lordship at length concluded the storm had prevented his coming; and the party, consisting of five or six and twenty, were in the act of retiring to their respective apartments to prepare for dinner, when Walker, the aforesaid groom of the chamber, came hurrying along, pale in the face from the parley in the passage, followed by the captain in a high state of exasperation, to announce the appearance of an uninvited guest. No sooner was the name “Jorrocks” announced, than a shout of triumph and a roar of laughter burst from all present; and after learning the particulars of his arrival, which seemed to fill every one with ecstasies, (for during the long wait before dressing, they had talked over and abused all their absent friends,) his lordship begged the gallant captain to be pacified, and put up with a suit of his clothes for the evening.

  “It was no use being angry with old Jorrocks,” he observed, “whom every body said was mad; and he trusted the amusement he would afford the company would atone for the inconvenience he had subjected his good friend the captain to.”

  The doctrine, though any thing but satisfactory to a man burning for vengeance, seemed all the consolation the captain was likely to get, so, returning with Walker, he borrowed the roomiest suit of Lord Bramber’s clothes, and while attiring himself in them, he considered how best he could have his revenge.

  Meanwhile our hero, having disposed of his third tumbler of stiff brandy and water, which contributed materially to the restoration of his usual equanimity, began to appropriate the clothes so conveniently laid out on the sofa.

  Captain Widowfield was a stout big fellow, as bulky as Jorrocks, and much taller, and being proud of his leg, was wont to adorn his lower man in shorts on high days and holidays; so having drawn on a pair of fine open-ribbed black silk stockings, over the gauze ones, Mr. Jorrocks speedily found himself in a pair of shorts, which, by dint of tight girthing, he managed to bring up to the middle of his calves. The Captain’s cravat was of black satin, the waistcoat a white one, articles, as Mr. Jorrocks observed, that could be reefed or let out to fit any one, and having plunged into the roomy recesses of a blue coat, with Conservative buttons, he surveyed the whole in the cheval glass, and pronounced them “werry good.” He then exchanged the captain’s lily and rose worked slippers for his patent leather pumps, and the brandy acting forcibly on an empty stomach, banished all diffidence, and made Jorrocks ring the bell, as though the house were his own.

  “You’ve got me into a pretty scrape with the Earl,” said Walker, entering the room; “I thought you were Captain Widowfield.”

  “Did you?” replied Mr. Jorrocks, placing himself before the fire with a coat-lap over each arm.— “You’ll know better another time. — But tell me, what Hearl is it you are talkin’ about?”

  “The Earl of Bramber, to be sure,” replied the servant.

  “What! this is his shop, is it?” inquired Jorrocks— “Onger Castel, in fact?”

  “Yes; I thought you had been one of the party when I shewed you in here,” replied Walker.

  “Oh, never mind,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “where there’s ceremony there’s no frindship — I makes no doubt I shall be werry welcome — See; there’s five shillin’s for you,” giving him a dollar. “You mustn’t let the captin in here though, mind. Now tell us, is there any grub to get?”

  “Dinner will be served in a quarter of an hour,” replied Walker.

  “Dinner!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, looking at his watch; “ten minutes past seven, and not dined yet; what will the world come to next? Dead o’winter too!”

  Walker then conducted him down stairs, and ushered him into a splendid drawing-room, brilliantly lighted up, whose countless mirrors reflected his jolly person a hundred-fold. The housemaids were just giving the finishing sweep to the grates, and the footmen lighting the candles and lamps, when our master entered; so making up to a table all covered with pamphlets and papers, he drew an easy chair towards it, and proceeded to make himself comfortable.

  Lord Bramber was the first to enter. He was a tall handsome young man, of delicate appearance and gentlemanly manners. He wore mustachios, and was dressed in a black coat and trousers, with a white waistcoat.

  Seeing a stranger, he had no difficulty in settling who he was, so he advanced with a bow and extended hand to greet him.

  Mr. Jorrocks was up in an instant.

  “My Lord, ‘necessitas non habet legs,’ as that classical stableman, Mr. Pomponius Hego, would say — or,’’unger makes a man bold,’ as I would say — I’m werry glad to see you,” saying which he shook his lordship’s hand severely.

  “Thank you,” replied Lord Bramber, smiling at his guest’s hospitality; “thank you,” repeated he— “hope you left Mrs. Jorrocks and your family well.”

  “Thank’e,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “thank’e, my lordship,” as the existence of his better-half was brought to his recollection; “‘opes I sharn’t find her as I left her.”

  “How’s that? I hope she is not unwell?” inquired his lordship with well-feigned anxiety.

  “Oh, no,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, raising his eye-brows with a shrug of his shoulders; “oh, no, only I left her in a werry bad humour, and I ‘opes I shall not find her in one when I gets back — haw, haw, haw, — he, he, he, — s’pose your ‘at (hat) covers your family — wish mine did too; for atwixt you and I and the wall, my lordship, women are werry weary warmints. I say, my lord, a gen’leman should do nothin’ but ‘unt, — it’s the sport of kings, the image of war, without its guilt, and only five-and-twenty per cent. of its danger. You’ve got a werry good shop here — capital shop, I may say,” added he, surveying the rich orange silk furniture and gilding of the room. “Wonder how l
ong this room is? Sixty feet, I dare say, if it’s a hinch; — let’s see.” So saying, Mr. Jorrocks, having set his back against the far wall, took a coat-lap over each arm, and thrusting his hands into Captain Widowfield’s breeches pockets, proceeded to step the apartment. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, when he was interrupted in his measurement by the opening of the door, and entrance of some of the guests. He was introduced to each in succession, including Captain Widowfield, a big, red-whiskered, pimply-faced, choleric-looking gentleman, to whom our worthy master tendered the hand of fellowship, in perfect ignorance of his being the person with whom he had held communion sweet through the door.

  Dinner was then announced.

  We suppose our readers will not care to have the names of the guests who sat down to the banquet, or yet the wines or viands that constituted the repast; suffice it to say, that the company consisted chiefly of people in the neighbourhood, sprinkled with a few idle Honourables, who lend themselves out to garnish country-houses in the dull season, and the best French and English cookery furnished the repast.

  Despite the prevailing non-wineing fashion, every body, save Captain Widowfield, drank wine with Mr. Jorrocks, and before the dessert appeared, the poor gentleman, what from the effects of brandy on an empty stomach before dinner, and wine on a full one during it, began to clip her Majesty’s English very considerably. “Never were such ‘ounds as mine,” he kept hiccupping, first into one neighbour’s car and then into another. “Never were such ‘ounds, (hiccup) certainly — hurrah, I say, (hiccup) Jorrocks is the boy! Forrard! hark, forrard, away! (hiccup.) You must come and ‘unt with me,” hiccupped he to the gentleman on the left. “Beef and Onions on Wednesday, (hiccup) — Candid Pig — no, Mountain-Daisy, (hiccup) — Saturday — James Pigg is a real warmint (hiccup) — a trump, a real trump, (hiccup) and no mistake. Give me port, none o’ your clarety wines.”

  The Earl of Bramber’s health, of course, was proposed in a bumper, with “all the honours.” Mr. Jorrocks hooped and holloaed at the top of his voice — an exertion that put the finishing stroke to his performances, for on attempting to resume his seat he made a miscalculation of distance, and fell with a heavy thump upon the floor. After two or three rolls he was lifted into his chair, but speedily resuming his place on the floor, Walker was summoned with two stout footmen to carry him to bed.

  Captain Widowfield followed to make sure of his clothes; the gap caused by Mr. Jorrocks’ secession was speedily closed in, and the party resumed the convivialities of the evening.

  The room to which our master was transferred was the dressing-room, over a large swimming-bath, on the eastern side of the castle, and very cozily he was laid into a little French bed. Walker wound up his watch, Captain Widowfield walked off with his clothes, and our drunken hero was left alone in his glory.

  The events of the day, together with the quantity of brandy and wine he had drank, and the fatigue consequent upon his exertions, combined to make Mr. Jorrocks feverish and restless, and he kept dreaming, and tossing, and turning, and tumbling about, without being able to settle to sleep. First, he fancied he was riding on the parapet of Waterloo Bridge with Arterxerxes, making what he would call a terrible fore-paw (faux pas), or stumble; next, that he was benighted on the common, and getting devoured by shepherds’ dogs; then, that having bought up all the Barcelona nuts in the world, and written to the man in the moon to secure what were there, he saw them become a drug in the market, and the firm of Jorrocks and Co. figuring in the “Gazette.”

  Next, he dreamt that he had got one of James Pigg’s legs and one of his own — that on examination they both turned out to be left ones, and he could not get his boots on. Now that he was half-famished, and chained to a wall in sight of a roast goose — anon that the Queen had sent to say she wanted to dance with him, and he couldn’t find his pumps; “No! give him all the world, sir, he couldn’t find his pumps.” Now that the Prince wanted to look at Arterxerxes, and he couldn’t find the ginger. “No: give him all the world, sir, he couldn’t find the ginger!” Then he got back to the chase, and in a paroxysm of rage, as he fancied himself kicking on his back in a wet ditch, with Benjamin running away with his horse, his dreams were interrupted by a heavy crack, bang, splash sort of sound, and in an instant he was under water All was dark and still. His dreams, though frightful, had all vanished as he awoke, and after rising to the top he waited an instant to see if this would not do likewise; but the sad reality was too convincing, so he began bellowing, and roaring, and splashing about in a most resolute manner.

  “Hooi! hooi! hooi!” spluttered he, with his eyes and mouth full of water. “‘Elp! ‘elp! ‘elp! ‘elp! I’m a drownin’, I’m a drownin’! Mr. Jorrocks is a drownin’ — oh, dear, oh, dear, will nobody come? — Oh, vere am I? vere am I? Binjimin! I say, Binjimin! James Pigg! James Pigg! James Pigg! Batsay! Batsay! Murder! ‘elp! murder! ‘elp!”

  “What’s happen’d? what’s happen’d? what’s happen’d? Who’s there? who’s there? Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!” screamed half-a-dozen voices at once, rushing with candles into the gallery of the swimming-bath.

  “Vot’s ‘appen’d?” replied Mr. Jorrocks, blobbing and striking out for hard life with his white cotton night-capped head half under water; “Vy, I’m drownin’,.— ‘Elp! ‘elp! ‘elp, I say! Oh, vill nobody come to ‘elp?”

  “Throw out the rope! throw out the rope!” cried half-a-dozen voices.

  “No; get a boat,” responded Mr. Jorrocks, thinking there was little choice between hanging and drowning. “Oh dear, I’m sinkin’, I’m sinkin’!”

  “Come to this side,” cried one, “and I’ll lend you a hand out;” thereupon Mr. Jorrocks struck out with a last desperate effort, and dashed his head against the wall.

  They then pulled him out of the bath, and with great care and condolence put him to bed again. He was still rather drunk — at least, not quite sober; for when pressed to exchange his wet shirt for a dry one, he hugged himself in it, exclaiming, “No, no; they’ll worry it! They’ll worry it!”

  CHAPTER XXVII. ANOTHER BENIGHTED SPORTSMAN

  “HEARD THE WINDS roar, and the big torrent burst.” —

  Thomson.

  “Well, I can’t stand it any longer, so it’s no use trying,” said Charley Stobbs to himself, turning his horse’s head in the direction of a light he saw gleaming past a window on the left of the road.

  Having about got through his horse, and lost Pigg and the hounds, he had taken temporary refuge at a small public house, which he had imprudently left, in hopes of regaining Handley Cross that night.

  After much casting about in the dark, with the imperfect and contradictory directions usually obtained from peasants in remote parts, Charley’s perseverance at length failed him, and he resolved to give in.

  The night was drear and dark — the wind howled and whistled with uncommon keenness — and the cutting hail drifted with the sharpness of needles against his face. Horse and rider were equally dispirited.

  Having formed his resolution, Charley was speedily at a white gate, whose sound and easy swing denoted an entrance of some pretension.

  A few seconds more, and he was under the lee of a large house. Having dismounted, and broken his shins against a scraper, he at length discovered a bell-pull in the door-post, which, having sounded, the echoing notes from afar proclaimed the size and importance of the mansion.

  All was still, save the wild wind, which swept over the lawn, dashing a few straggling leaves about with uncommon fury. Charley stood dripping and shivering, with his horse in his hand, but no one came — all was still within. Another pull sounded through the house, and a third succeeded that. At length, in a partial lull, a soft female voice was heard through the door, inquiring, “Who was there?”

  “Me!” exclaimed Charley; “Mr. Stobbs! — a benighted fox-hunter — been out with Mr. Jorrocks’s hounds.”

  “Master’s gone to bed
,” replied the servant, drawing the bolts and chain as she spoke: and just as she began to open the door, a sudden gust of wind extinguished her candle.

  “I’ll run for a lantern,” exclaimed she, shutting-to the door, leaving Charley stamping and thumping himself with his hands. Presently she returned with a dark lantern, with the slide up, which threw a light over the horseman without discovering the holder.

  The sight of a red coat banishing fear, she closed the door after her, and informed Charley that master was gone to bed, and the butler too, but she would show him the stable, and get a man to take charge of the horse. The Yorkshire nag seemed to understand the arrangement, for he immediately gave himself a hearty shake, as if to say that his labours were done at last.

  The maid led the way, and on they went to the stable. It formed the wing of the house, and a groom, sleeping above, being roused from his bed, came with the alacrity usually displayed by servants in the service of a red coat.

  Indeed, as Mr. Jorrocks says, there’s no colour like scarlet. In it, a man winks at the women, rings at your bell, orders your brandy, rides through your garden, and all in the style of doing you a favour. The half-dressed groom would whole-dress the horse, and get him some gruel, and clothe him well up, and litter him well down; and as he hissed, and pulled at the horse’s ears, he paused every now and then and grinned with delight at Charley’s account of the sport.

  “A’, it must have been a grand run!” exclaimed he; “and where did you kill him?”

  “Don’t know that,” replied Charles; “we got upon the Downs, when it became actually racing — the fox going in the teeth of the wind, and no one with the hounds but the huntsman, and a farmer who cut in during the run. I got into a bog, and the hounds ran clean out of sight before I recovered my horse, and night came on without my even being able to hear or see anything more of them.”

  “Dear!” exclaimed the groom, “you don’t say so — that was a bad job; and was Squire Jorrocks not up?” thereupon the groom dived elbow-deep into the gruel-pail, and lifting it up, the horse quaffed off the contents like a basin of soup. Blankets and bandages came warm from the saddle-room fire, and having seen his horse well done by, and told the groom all he could about the run, Charley again sought the shelter of the house.